


About Today

by ukiyo91, yukonecho (yavanna)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bro-Yoda, M/M, Rainbow Vodka, Recreational Drug Use, Rock Star AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yavanna/pseuds/yukonecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Kane thinks he's a rockstar. Fortunately for him, he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	About Today

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of a late-night conversation where yukonecho messaged ukiyo with, "Patrick Kane thinks he's a rockstar. Fortunately for him, he is."
> 
> Ukiyo replied with, "Gaaaaaah!"
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. We really have no idea what it's like to be or to manage a rockstar--but what we do know is that Patrick Kane would make a great one.
> 
> Title from The National.

Jonny wakes up and knows that this will not be a good day. He takes a precautionary xanax and chugs down two cups of piping hot coffee before looking himself in the mirror and putting on his best ‘don't fuck with me’ face.

Downstairs, in the hotel lobby, is Patrick Kane, who, as always, begins his conversation with, “It wasn't me!”

Jonny doesn't even want to know. He tells Pat so and ignores his half gleeful, half terrified look as he looks down at his phone and sees at least two dozen emails from the last fifteen minutes alone.

He sighs, “Who, what, where, when, why, and how.”

“Well...I think her name was Christy, and there was definitely making out, I’m not sure where, maybe somewhere public ‘cause it’s on twitter, definitely last night, or maybe morning, I don’t know when 2am is anymore, because she was hot! And...I guess the usual way? She saw that it was me, and, well,” Patrick shrugs, “I’m a fucking rock star, baby.”

“Did you just call me baby?!”

Patrick’s eyebrows lift. “Yeah.”

Sometimes Jonny would have preferred it if Patrick had gone into professional sports, or something other than music. Being a rock star definitely goes to his head.

As expected, Jonny's day consists of a few constants. Kaner will end up somewhere he isn't supposed to be. Sharpy will call him at a really inconvenient time to a) bitch about Kaner's latest antics on TMZ or b) entreat him to babysit. And, of course, the tech guys will accidentally break something and fix it at the last possible minute.

Patrick, Jonny muses, probably wakes up like the ten beers and 5 vodka chasers were water, and has some stupid fucking woodland creatures dress him and spruce his curls. at least, that's how he looks as Jonny glares at him over the barrage of texts popping up on his phone. “Did it not occur to you that getting smashed the night before our first day of touring would maybe send the wrong message to our crew about personal responsibility?”

Patrick sniffs. “Not all of us are losers.”

“Yeah. I am not one of those unfortunates, but you might be.” Jonny says back.

“You really need to work on it, Jonny,” Kaner says sincerely. “That was lame, even for you. Anyway, it wasn’t me, I’m going to go do, uh, something, and have a great day! Don’t answer your phone.”

Jonny feels his eyebrows knit together even further than they are already--at this rate, he’s going to have a scarf growing above his eyes pretty soon, and it’s only the first day--and he’s a little worried about what the answer will be when he asks, “Where are you going? And why not?”

“I’m off to corrupt the youths, sing a few songs, dispense some autographs, and generally bask in the universal appreciation of my person.” Kaner says, heading towards the door. “And just don’t.”

Jonny gets the call from the label about twenty minutes later. He’s expecting it, really. He is Kaner’s manager, and it’s his job to manage, and the one night he decides to take himself off Kaner-watching duty, the guy ends up making an idiot of himself outside a club in Nashville. Jonny, born and raised in the beautiful and peaceful province of Manitoba, isn’t unaware of what kind of shit a newly-minted rockstar can get up to in the capital of Country Music. Kaner’s sure enough forced him to watch nearly every episode of Nashville during their hiatus last spring, wondering aloud whether he’s a Rayna or a Juliette until Jonny had told him to shut up. So of course Kaner’s tour kicks off in Nashville, where the booze flows freely and every girl can harmonize to one of Kaner’s melodies.

He’s already fielded one concerned call from Sharpy, who, as Kaner’s agent, feels free to butt in at any and all opportunity pertaining to the care and feeding of Patrick Kanes. Jonny feels a headache coming on as he answers his phone and hears the well-modulated tone of Bowman’s assistant put him through to the boss.

“Toews.”

Bowman sighs, a sigh full of disappointment, that Jonny, trained monkey that he is, responds instantly to with a sour feeling in his throat and a weight in his stomach. “I’m assuming you saw the latest antics?”

“Unfortunately, yes, sir.”

“Jonny, I do not want this tour to be a repeat of last year. I’m warning you,” Bowman’s voice, honed from years of professional cruelty, sharpens into something that cuts, “You need to keep him on the straight and narrow. We have millions of dollars in donor investments and shares in your boy. Tours are not cheap, and Patrick does not have the brand recognition outside the US just yet to open the door for an International debut. We’re taking a chance here, and so far, ticket sales have been very good. But do you think advertisers are going to endorse some bratty kid who can’t keep it in his pants? Kane is not Mick Jagger, and this is not the ‘60s. I don’t want to see his face on TV again unless he’s winning a Grammy.” Bowman hangs up.

Jonny stares at his phone, and then stares past the hotel lobby to where Kaner stands, flanked by his bodyguards and signing autographs for a pair of lovely, barely-legal girls. Fuck his life.

********  
  


Later that night, the city of Nashville seems to be holding its breath for Patrick Kane. The first night of a tour is always the most exciting, laden with expectations and fiascos, newbies trying to slot in amongst veterans who’ve seen all this shit before. Up in the tech booth, the many brothers Staal and their new intern Jeff work systematically to coordinate lights and special effects. Thankfully, Patrick prefers a more minimalist set, just him and his guitar and the back-up band, some flashing lights, and, of course, the roar of the crowd. But behind the scenes, it’s controlled chaos, and Jonny’s lucky that he can hand the reins over to the stage manager and focus on the star of the show. Patrick is grinning and shaking with excitement, chewing on the cuff of his sleeve until Jonny yanks it out of his mouth. Patrick gives him a sheepish grin and Jonny can’t help but roll his eyes fondly. It’s their second tour together, the first being overwhelming and stressful and new in so many scary and amazing ways. It had also gone by in a flash, and for Jonny’s its a just a blur of late nights, good music, and Patrick’s face, his hands, his body. He’s glad that they were able to move on. He’s glad to be back for this, their second time around, and Patrick must be on the same wavelength, because he flashes a peace sign and screams in Jonny’s face, “Number Two, Baby!”

Jonny smirks and pushes him away, and watches as Patrick gathers himself and takes a deep breath, calming his shaky nerves and shifting into musician mode, feeding off of the increasing screams of “Kaner!” coming from the audience. Jonny can tell when he’s ready: Patrick stands tall, gaze half-lidded in bored confidence, at odds with the smiles stretching across his face.

He steps out onto the stage and the crowd goes nuts, and Jonny can’t help but feel the same rush of excitement as Patrick takes his trusty Gibson from Brandon, his bass player, saunters up the stage to the mic, and shouts, “What’s up, Nashville?”

At the ensuing scream, he announces, “I’m gonna start this baby off with a good-ole favorite. Sing along if you know it,” and with a wink to his band, Kaner launches into his first song.

Jonny listens, swaying in some parts, mouthing the words at others. Patrick’s music is nothing like him--Patrick started out just playing around with the guitar, he says, expecting to stay in blue-collar Buffalo for the rest of his life. Garage bands led to solo gigs at trashy bars and no one paid attention, until Patrick Sharp passed through to see a Sabres game and stopped by a bar afterwards on open mic night. Kaner, according to Sharp, wearing an uncharacteristically serious expression, played like no one else he had ever seen. He played without the expectation of praise, with no self-consciousness and no aspiration. He played purely because he wanted to. With absolutely no artifice, it was raw, honest, and beautiful. Kaner’s career developed under Sharpy’s guidance, opening for bands that had a soulful, folky style but with a rock ‘n roll edge. Patrick learned from the guys, adapted his own style into painfully good guitar-playing, taking advantage of his dexterous hands. His tone became gritter, more technical, reminiscent of early Clapton, but his singing and lyrics were all small-town boy, and the imperfect tone of his voice drew people in, a perfect contrast with his stellar guitar. People said solo guitarists couldn’t make it anymore, that there had to be a band, a gimmick, or have pop appeal and cross-over. But that Patrick Kane was special, Jonny knew from the moment he saw him in the studio, with the weight of Sharpy’s hand on his shoulder and his voice in Jonny’s ear: “Isn’t he something?” And Jonny had nodded, because Kaner was singing what would become his trademark song, a meandering, Dylan-esque ode to big dreams in a small town that resonated with every single young American who heard it. Jonny had known then there wasn’t any going back. “Steady On” blew up the charts, rising fast to number one and stunning everyone in the industry, and perhaps Patrick most of all--they had been introduced only a week before, and Patrick was essentially handing his career over to Jonny’s care. And Jonny, while repeating the same gentling platitudes about success and production and working hard, had promised to himself that he would get Patrick there. He would get him what he deserved. He had known, back then, that Patrick would be worth it.

Just, sometimes, it’ll a little hard to remember when that same guy stares back at him two years later with a shit-eating grin on his face and the evidence of the previous night’s bad ideas plastered all over the blogosphere.  

********  
  


With the first show a rousing success, they head into their road trip optimistic. Because Kaner’s crew isn’t massive, the studio arranged for two giant tour buses, the first to house the band and the second for Patrick. Most often, Jonny finds himself sleeping in the spare bunk across from Patrick, which makes it easier, Jonny reasons, to keep Patrick on the straight and narrow, and he’s decently successful. Patrick’s not stupid, and he doesn’t do anything that could cause his singing serious harm. He’s usually barely drunk enough when Jonny grabs his collar and manhandles him out of bars that a few words about an upcoming show will shut him up. Jonny does his best, and more often than not, he finds himself smiling at Patrick, because the guy may be a fucking idiot, but he’s pretty stupid cute about it.

But Kaner likes to party. He likes to drink, and have fun, and be loud about it. Sometimes Jonny thinks it hasn’t quite sunk in for Patrick that he’s constantly watched--it’s like the concept of his fame hasn’t reached his brain just yet, and he feels free to act like he’s just some kid back in Buffalo, screwing around with no repercussions. Jonny’s all too aware of the consequences, though: he gets sharply worded reminders from Bowman and Co. whenever Kaner steps too far over the line. He’s lucky; the tour schedule keeps them busy enough that the partying is sporadic, and after shows, Patrick usually comes back to the tour bus too exhausted to go out.

And Jonny’s learned his lesson from a year ago, when he was trying too hard to be a boss to Kaner instead of his friend, and then the sex they’d had complicated everything and made things worse. It wasn’t solely Kaner’s fault that they had imploded--Jonny hadn’t been helping by sending mixed signals. The stress and the non-communication had certainly helped to speed things along to a messy end, aided by a screaming match between Jonny and Kaner about expectations and disappointments and fucking up. Shortly after, and towards the end of their last tour, Kaner had gotten really, truly, absolutely trashed in public, the kind of drunk that landed him on tabloids and Entertainment News, where a bunch of somber-faced “journalists” had expressed their concern over Patrick Kane’s partying ways. (That had been the first call from the label, and the stern warning that Kaner’s appeal to the younger demographic meant that there had to be some standards set and that Jonny was expected to enforce them.) The publicity fall out from that had been monstrous, and so had the chilly silence between the two of them. But Jonny had known that Patrick didn’t deserve the harsh treatment from the press, and had known even then that he couldn’t let him face that alone. So they stumbled toward something resembling peace, and had just...continued on. The last leg of the tour, life resumed its pace. Albeit with less hugging and screwing around.

And that had been that. It wasn’t like Jonny needed _closure_. Patrick certainly didn’t, and once they finally started talking again, they settled into something that was regular and good. After the tour they had spent the next seven months relaxing and getting Kaner focused on writing and recording a new album. The music was a bit richer than Patrick’s  last, which had “concerned” the label with its grittiness, but his new music was a mix of Dylan-esque and Townshend (thankfully, without the smashing of guitars). The fans had loved it, skyrocketing it once more to Number One and the label had pushed immediately for a national tour.

Jonny just hoped this one turned out better than the last.

********  
  


A few months in, they’re finally in Tampa Bay, and things are already pretty crazy. Some equipment got moved and some hybrid flu disease is making the round, incapacitating nearly a third of the crew, so most people are working overtime, exhausted, and cranky. Patrick tries to help out where he can, but everyone’s a little wary about making the talent do any work, which in turn frustrates Kaner. Everyone’s stressed, and Jonny’s doing his rounds late at night, like usual, just checking up after setup in the new city, because they’ve got a show starting in the afternoon tomorrow, and Jonny’s core philosophy is one of vigilance and preparedness.

He’s actually little later than he likes, behind schedule because Kaner had been running around in a huff--surprise--and disrupted everybody, even the tech guys, who really did not need to be disturbed during setup. Jonny’s searching for their lead technician, Eric, because this missing equipment issue is freaking everyone out and he needs to get down to the bottom of it. Jonny’s not exactly being quiet, because he’s a big guy and he walks decently heavily when he’s angry, and he when he sees a light on in the tech booth, he starts preparing himself for a group rage session with some Staals and Jeff so that they can all get some of their frustration out.

Maybe it’s because Jonny’s breathing a little heavily and can’t hear, or just caught up in his own head, but he doesn’t notice that the noises coming from the tech booth aren’t the usual grunts and, in fact, are moans and then Jonny turns the corner, and-- _oh_.

Well, that’s one use for spare cord, Jonny thinks dryly, before he manages to turn himself around from the doorway and compose himself. And it’s not just Jonny who gets wound up, okay, he knows that, but he’s going to take it out by pacing around all night, not sleeping, and he might punch a few of their sturdier poles, but that’s whatever and really nothing serious because Jonny’s pretty sure that the Staals are dealing with their frustration by tying their intern up and doing increasingly filthy though enthusiastically consensual things to him. Jonny’s ready to call it an insomnia-induced hallucination until several hours later he runs into Jeff and sees the evidence of a mouth shaped bruise adorning the young intern’s neck. Not even on the side, Jonny notices with a hint of bewilderment, but right smack in the adam’s apple. Jonny opens his mouth to deliver a lecture on work-appropriate behavior and fucking a fucking scarf on or something, but figures he has way too much shit to do and just breathes in, out, and nods when Jeff looks up with dimples that are way too innocent, and sends his thanks to the dear great gods of tour crews that the kid's legal.

********  
  


Despite the clusterfuck of getting the show together, Kaner plays his heart out, and Tampa Bay shows their appreciation. Afterwards,  Jonny can tell exactly what he’s thinking from the way he dances around their tour bus. Kaner wants to celebrate.

“Jonny!” Kaner yells from the bathroom of their bus. “Tonight is a night!”

Jonny groans. “What kind of night, Pat?”

“A night, my friend, that will end with a bang.” Jonny knows Kaner is grinning sleazily at his reflection in the mirror, which is a decently disturbing thought.

Kaner always goes out with a bang, actually. He gets laid a lot, usually loudly and publicly, and his usual retort to Jonny is along the lines of,  “Shut up, I’m a rock star and I can do what I want.”

Jonny takes a moment to admire Pat’s ass as he steps out of their squished bathroom, then shakes his head. Nope. Not tonight.

Three hours later, though, Jonny finds himself with Patrick’s arm around his shoulders, and the blonde is grinning, already half-trashed. “You are nearly not enough drunk, Taaaazer” he says, and Jonny gives him an eyebrow. “Oh fuck you, that name is awesome” Pat adds companionably, and Jonny rolls his eyes.

“You okay, buddy?” He asks, so ready to go home and sleep off the two days of stress and exhaustion, except that Kaner chooses to hop up onto their table and start dancing, no shuffling, around horribly. A waitress comes over with a platter of multi-colored shots and Patrick gleefully downs them one by one.

Jonny has to laugh at the spectacle. “What?” Kaner asks, sticking his tongue out at Jonny, and Jonny just grins.

“You’re the short ginger leprechaun at the end of the rainbow,” he says back, and maybe he deserves it when Kaner jumps on him. But nothing’s more satisfying than the next morning when Kaner stumbles to the pitifully small bathroom on the bus, and it’s silent for a moment before Jonny hears him holler, “Jesus, Jonny, my fucking puke is rainbow-colored!”

“It’s your own fault,” Jonny replies and stifles a laugh at Kaner’s pained groan.

********  
  


It’s a similar refrain through the rest of their southern leg of the tour, but once they start to head up north, Kaner thankfully slows down with the partying. This is due in part to Jonny’s efforts to spend more time focusing on getting some songs down for Patrick’s next album. Most of their nights are spent huddling around their sparse bus kitchen, Kaner plugging away at his guitar while throwing out lyrics that Jonny will either shoot down or add to a carefully-guarded notebook. These nights are nice, and more often than not, their songwriting will devolve into bickering arguments over who has the lamer taste in anything.

“You know, Jonny, it really redeems your music taste that you’re working with me,” Patrick says, dropping a chip in his mouth leisurely with his feet kicked up on the table in front of him.

Jonny’s amused. “If by redeems, you mean negates, or draws concern to, then yes.”

“Ha-fucking-ha,” Pat says sourly. “You love it, don’t lie. Anyway, I’ve heard what you like. What, the Grateful Dead? It’s not like they weren’t good, but they’re so old that most of them are _actually dead_.” Jonny frowns, but Kaner keeps going. “Get modern, man.”

“Garcia was a genius, Kaner. You have no idea,” Jonny replies.

“Yeah, but a stoner hippie band? Seriously?”

Jonny’s insulted. “You think I’ve never gotten high?”

“All I’m saying is, I’m just trying to picture you with a flower crown dancing at Lilith Fair.”

What happens later is not Jonny’s fault, which is the important part. He was goaded into it. Everyone can be unprofessional once or twice, okay? And Jonny is totally the fun one.

He also didn’t really expect Eric Staal to know a guy in Raleigh, and it wasn’t like Pat was short on cash.

Fortunately, Jonny has done this before (TJ had connections back at UND in their college days) so it’s not like he’s embarrassing himself as he rolls the weed while Kaner looks on in amusement and Eric prepares another, cross-legged across from him, various other Staals and one Skinner sprawled out around them awkwardly in the cramped space on the bus.

“I’m not so surprised at you, Kaner, but Jonny? Captain Serious himself, getting high?” Eric remarks, and Patrick snorts.

“Jonny’s a closet hippie,” he adds,  pulling out his lighter. Ten minutes later later, they’re all  high enough that Jonny leans over and selects his Happy playlist from his iPod, finding the song he’s looking for and raising an eyebrow at Kaner as the soft strains of Jack Straw come pouring out of the speakers.

“You know it,” He challenges, and Kaner comes through, proving to Jonny that for all that Kaner fronts, the man knows his Dead.

Jonny and Kaner warble, slightly off-key, _We can share the women, we can share the wiiiiiine!_ and Kaner chokes off in laughter over Jonny’s voice, which has departed from his usual monotone to an attempt to capture Garcia’s husky flow.

_We can share what we got of yours,_

_'Cause we done shared all of mine!_

Wow, whatever weed Eric got, it’s potent. Jonny hasn’t smiled this hard in ages.

_Keep a rolling,_

_Just a mile to go,_

_Keep on rolling, my old buddy,_

_You're moving much too slooooooow._ They collapse in laughter: Patrick convulsing in giggles in the corner and Jonny chuckling more sedately, which is the best he can do, really.

Eric’s chilling in the corner, his lanky arm around Jeff and passing the kid the blunt. But it’s really not the worst thing Jonny has seen them do together, he thinks, though he’s much less inclined to be bothered about their, uh, professional relationship, now than a few weeks ago.

This is so the opposite of what being on the job should be, Jonny knows, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not right now, with Pat looking happy and relaxed for the first time since they started the tour. Jonny locks his eyes on Pat for a moment, and they smile, eased by the weed.

Jonny wants to kiss him _so bad_. So he does.

Patrick looks up at him, loose-limbed and dazed, and his mouth parts and he says, “Jonny, I...”

Jonny chooses not to hear the rest of that. Instead, he leans forward and kisses him again, smooth and slow like he knows they like. Like they’ve always liked.

********  
  


History repeats itself. Sometimes, they fuck. Not all the time. Mostly, when the spotlight becomes abrasive, and Kaner starts to fold into himself, or when the pressures of dealing with management and the numerous petty concerns of life on tour strains the limits of Jonny’s endurance. That’s when they find each other--half furtive fumbles in the darkness of the tour bus or on the couch of a dressing room moments before a show.

They don’t talk about it either, but it’s like a language whose fluency transcends speech-they know the signs, the moment of recognition within each other. In a way, for Jonny, it becomes a bond between them that itches as much as it soothes.  He knows that he gives something that Kaner, Patrick, needs more than anything sometimes: a hand curling around the back of his neck, gently applying pressure, while his other hands works at his flesh with unyielding certainty; Jonny’s eyes on Kaner, telling him without words that he sees him, that he can let go cause Jonny will catch him. And Patrick is breathtaking when he falls apart in Jonny’s hands, and he does so with such pained relief that Jonny knows he isn’t like this when he’s with other people. Just like Jonny doesn’t trust himself to fully let go either, when he’s with men he picks up in bars sometimes--low-lit, anonymous bars in red state cities where most of the guys are terrified and stunned by their desires, who gladly surrender control to Jonny. With Kaner, it’s different. Usually, when Jonny needs him, Pat doesn’t show a hint of the vulnerability that plagues him during his darker moments. Instead, Pat is all smiles and bedroom eyes, gesturing Jonny away from his BlackBerry, iPhone, and tablet and towards the intimate nook of his tour bus bedroom, where he holds Jonny down with a raised eyebrow and says, “Chill out, Jonny, you’re giving me an ulcer over here,” and proceeds to take Jonny apart with his mouth. His mouth, which Jonny sees everyday, whether in person or slapped across the internet, usually attached to someone else’s flesh or a mic.

Jonny doesn’t know why it’s so easy with him--it shouldn’t be, since most of the time Jonny wants to wring Kaner’s neck. But maybe it’s Kaner’s utter disregard for shame or self-consciousness that gets to him in these moments: he’s willing to put it all out there for Jonny, to make him tremble and moan and, yes, on occasion, whimper. If he’ll admit it to himself, he gets into it. During these moments, he’ll let himself be turned over, cheek pressed into the spectacularly ugly leopard-print pillow, and let Kaner go to town, tongue tracing patterns along his spine, and Kaner’s talented fingers skillfully rubbing down along his hole, applying pressure in maddeningly slow movements before his tongue catches up. He opens Jonny up slowly, thoroughly, so much so that Jonny’s often impressed by his patience, but by that point is completely unable to give voice to it. He lets Kaner eat him out like he’s a feast spread before him, and Kaner’s always grateful, moaning and making these obscene slurping noises that Jonny half detests and half fucking loves, it’s so filthy, and Kaner’s the only one who he’s ever let do this. The only one who ever sees him this undone, grinding into the mattress frantically as Kaner inserts a finger alongside his tongue and just gets sloppy and uncoordinated. By this point, Jonny will start acting, as Kaner calls it, the “pushy bottom,” and will order Kaner to fucking just do it, just fucking give it to him, and Kaner will take for-fucking-ever to get to the finale, easing his fingers and tongue out of the way before sliding in. And for someone who aspires to 5’11 and can fit into size 6 girls’ skinny jeans (that was a weird night), Kaner knows how to give it to Jonny, setting such a brutally fast pace, a heady contrast to his slow preparation, that Jonny is often winded by it, gasping sharply like he can’t fucking catch his breath. His dick is so hard, almost chafing against the ridiculously patterned sheets,  and Jonny can’t even move to touch it, since at some point, Kaner will grab his wrists and pin them to the bed.

Jonny allows himself to let go, his mind feeling whooshy and hazy and so wound up with pleasure that he knows Kaner can do anything he wants, and Jonny will go with it. But he doesn’t; he always knows when too far is too far, like that one time with the ropes that Jonny hated, and that’s the root of it, really: that trust. Because just like Kaner knows that Jonny will never let him go, Jonny knows Kaner will let him fall just far enough.

Admittedly, Kaner’s voice keeps him from getting too deep, moaning and whining about how tight Jonny is, and jeez, fuck, how the hell are you real, Jonny? And then Kaner will get sappy, and say something like, “Baby, come on, so fucking beautiful, so fucking awesome,” and Jonny turn his head to an uncomfortable angle just to glare at him and say, “Shut the fuck up, Kaner.” And then Kaner will fucking lose his shit and come, and Jonny will sigh and remember to hold his tongue next time. But Kaner’s popular with the sexes for a reason--he doesn’t leave someone hanging. He’ll usually turn Jonny over and blow him, eyes glazed over with satiation, and the night ends with Jonny either coming in his mouth or on his face--either way suits him just fine.

And afterwards, they’ll lie together and pant for a while. It’s these in-between moments that Jonny secretly treasures and fears. Because, in those moments, Kaner ceases to be his client, his friend, his burden; instead, he becomes something vague and real and precious to Jonny in a way he’s not equipped to handle. He thinks, _we’re linked_ , and looks over at Patrick, who has his eyes shut and is probably about to conk out, but who always, always, reaches a hand out and grasps Jonny’s wrist and holds it there for a moment. For some reason, Jonny think this  is the most intimate thing they do, and a part of him always wants to snatch it away and run as far as he can. He’s been down this road with Patrick before, done the same things over and over, and it didn’t end well last time.

But, he thinks, Patrick probably wants to run away as well. Jonny knows him better now, knows that Patrick is going to search and find that excuse he needs to distance himself from what’s growing once more between them. Yet, it’s at these moments that Jonny finds himself forgetting that: Patrick always makes the choice to bridge the gap and touch Jonny after their sessions. It’s the same thing Jonny does when he’s the one working Kaner over, and he’s sobbing and shuddering and so vulnerable that Jonny doesn’t know how not to reach out and hold onto him, convince him that he’s real, and connect him to another.

Jonny often wonders about this thing between them, is it only real in these liminal moments, as they fight the transition from who they should be to who they really are? It’s too much to talk about, even if Jonny knew the words to explain. And he doubts Kaner has any answers as well. They just exist in these moments, articulating only through their breaths and the feel of skin on skin, until the knock on Kaner’s door for the ten minute warning or the beep of Jonny’s phone.

********  
  


This time, the beep of Jonny’s phone is not the harsh return to reality. Instead, it’s an unexpected surprise. A pleasant one for Jonny, though not so much for Kaner, who groans when he realizes that stopping in St. Louis means their tour coincides with one T.J. Oshie, or as his fans know him, Broshie.

“You abandon me every time he calls you up,” Patrick whines.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, like it’s obvious. “But this time you get to come too.”

Patrick looks less than enthused by the prospect, and says, “I’d rather stay on this bus and play Mario Kart all night, thank you very much.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a baby. Plus, he wants you to come along.”

TJ Oshie and Jonny were buddies in college, and Jonny had actually helped start his ridiculously successful career as a rapper.  As they sit in the cab on the way to the bar, Jonny tries to tune out Patrick’s bitching.  However, like most things involving Kaner, the effort is fruitless.  “What if he wants to gloat about his new album?” Patrick pouts. After the success of Kaner’s tour, though, Jonny’s not concerned.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he says finally, and but that only serves to set Kaner going.

“Oh my god, Jonny. Do you even remember the time that you and Broshie wanted us to collaborate on a song? It was so bad. I would seriously consider burning my guitars rather than let Broshie near them. Like, god, he’s a baby-faced white rapper whose fans are all prepubescent and squealy. Can anyone take a kid like that seriously?” Kaner turns to Jonny expectantly, who rolls his eyes and adds tortillas to the grocery list he’s making on his phone.

Kaner sighs melodramatically. “The answer to that question is no, in case you were wondering. They can’t. And for the record, I don’t do rap interludes.”

“Okay,” Jonny says absentmindedly. They also need cheese if they want burritos.

“Kaner, my main man, yo,” Broshie grins when they get there, and Jonny can’t help but laugh at the way Kaner flinches.

They end up squishing into a booth with relative anonymity, despite some obvious photos taken from smartphones. After a while, and a couple of drinks,  Jonny’s feeling pretty happy. Kaner’s pressing himself against him, and that might just be a coping mechanism on Patrick’s part, searching for solace from TJ’s admittedly fratty aura, but Jonny will take it.

“So I’m riding along like _vroooooom_ , you know,” TJ’s telling them about his race-car driving experience, and it’s sounding pretty stupid to Jonny, “And then I swerved to left, and to the right,” TJ flips his hair in each direction, highlights flying, “And then, ta-da mothafucka, I won.” He gives Kaner a shit-eating grin.

Kaner frowns. “Yeah, well, once I rode a tank.”

Jonny gets up, because this is one shitting contest he does not need to hear again--and he’d beat both of them anyway. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I’ve gotta pee,” and soon enough he’s sent off with instructions for the next round, too.

He’s on his way back, three Schlafly’s gripped in one hand, when he hears their conversation from around the corner.

TJ sighs. “Bro,”

“Don’t ‘bro’ me.”

“Whatever, man. Tell me about how bros you are with my boy, Jonny.”

“He’s _your_ boy?” Kaner sounds outraged.

“Listen, man, I just want you to know that it is so not cool to jerk him around.” TJ says, after a moment, and it’s more serious than Jonny’s heard him in, well, a long time.

Kaner clears his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says condescendingly.

“Really? Are you sure? ‘Cause, yo, that’s not what it looks like.” Jonny’s heart leaps for TJ, because, seriously, that guy is a bro to the max.

“Fucking right I’m sure,” Kaner says, sounding furious.

There’s some squeaks, and it sounds like TJ’s leaning back in the booth. “Sometimes a bro’s gotta be a man, ya know what I mean, bro?” He adds, “You dig me?”

“Yeah, I dig you,” Kaner replies slowly.

“Aiiiiight, we tight, man.”

“I refuse to be tight with you,” Kaner says, and there’s the Patrick Jonny knows.

“Yeaaaaaah, baby, mind if I rap about this?” TJ asks.

“I will kill you if you do,” Kaner replies, sounding deadly serious. Jonny decides that this is a good time to re-enter the conversation, before he loses either of his best friends, and as he turns the corner, he sees Kaner looking marginally more relaxed.  

They don’t stick around too long; having two monstrously famous musicians in one place is attracting people like flies, probably through twitter, so Oshie bows out and lets his entourage of beefy security escort him out. Kaner and Jonny opt to walk a little bit, enjoying the night’s breeze after days of being cooped up with stale bus-air.

As is their wont, the peaceful atmosphere is disrupted by petty arguing.

“All I’m saying, Jonny, is that pretty much everyone at that rag are are plebes. Half the time they write shit about me on YouTube. I don’t know why I can’t go to bar anymore without thinking about that they’re going to say next. They don’t even matter.”

Jonny whips his head around. “Don’t you fucking say that. For better or for worse, they’re fans. They listen to your music, they make you part of the conversation. There has to be a balance there. That’s the essence of fame.”

Kaner rolls his eyes. “What fucking ever, Jonny, it’s not a big deal. The people are plebes and I am their Caesar.”

“Have you ever read a history book, Kaner? They assassinated Julius Caesar.” 

“Yeah, and he went down in history as like, the most famous dude ever. Except maybe Elvis. I mean, seriously. What’s not to love?”

“Do you even know what assassinated means?”

“Fuck you, I only forget big words when I’m drunk.”

Jonny sighs. Some days...

Kaner elbows Jonny in the side. “You know what else Julius Caesar did?”

Jonny eyes him warily out of the side of his eyes and silently raises an eyebrow.

“He wore a motherfucking toga, baby!” Kaner crows, and Jonny cracks a grin. Not a regular, happy one, more his, _I can’t believe I like this idiot_ one that he reserves specially for Patrick.

Patrick leans forward and kisses Jonny, slow and smooth and soft, licking into his mouth, and Jonny tenses briefly before relaxing into him.

Jonny slowly opens his eyes as Patrick pulls away, looking at Jonny hesitantly. He sighs, “I really don’t see how you think you’re less of a douche than Teej,” he mutters, before gripping Pat’s shoulder and pulling him in for another kiss, muffling his protests.

********  
  
  


They head back towards the East Coast after their St. Louis detour, stopping to do a show in DC that’s apparently attended by Alexander Ovechkin (“Who knew I had Russian hockey player fans?” Kaner wonders) before moving on to Pennsylvania. They get a day off between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, so Jonny calls up his brother to see if he’s around. Dave, like a good Canadian boy, got into hockey and stuck with it, though Jonny had petered out pretty soon after he discovered music.

“Dude, you know mom and dad are in town, right?”

“Seriously?” Okay, maybe Jonny’s been kind of a bad son. When you’re running a 30-city  tour and managing the likes of Patrick Kane, it’s easy to forget about pretty much anything else. He’s kind of obliged to make an appearance and let his mother coo over him and have his dad awkwardly pat him on the back and ask how the ‘music biz’ is treating him.

Then he has simultaneously the best and worst idea ever.

“Can I bring Kaner with me?” he asks.

His brother is silent, then says, “If by Kaner, you mean _Patrick Kane_ , the rock star who is currently playing nonstop on the radio when I drive to the rink, then yeah sure, he can come.”

“Great,” Jonny says, feeling weirdly relieved.

“Jonny? Is this like a meet-the-parents thing?” It’s obvious that Dave is aiming for casual, but he sounds a bit squeaky. Jonny can’t tell if the idea horrifies him or not, but cautiously replies, “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Hmm,” is all Dave says, “Well, tell your famous rock star not-boyfriend to bring something expensive and yummy, cause Mom’s cooking and her food deserves some good drink.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know, thanks bud.” Jonny tosses back, dryly, before hanging up.

********  
  


Predictably, Patrick does not take news of their plans well.

After the initial, “You’re coming to dinner, Kaner,” Patrick’s face undergoes a series of changes in color, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish. Before he can reply, Jonny adds, “And don’t be rude. Bring a something along.”

“Jonny, I have no idea what a good hostess gift is,” Kaner whines, and Jonny’s not taking any of his shit.

“Just bring some fucking merlot!” He says and stalks off.

“Merlot tastes like crap, you loser!” he hears Kaner shriek after him.

Because he loves to be a contrary little shit, Patrick brings some wonderfully dry Pinot to Dave’s, complaining that there were no decent liquor stores anywhere in Reading, Pennsylvania, and who the hell calls a town Reading, anyway? Jonny ignores him, as he usually does, and before he can even ring the doorbell his mother flings it open and Jonny is dragged into a perfumed embrace, hearing the soothing French of his childhood as his mother chides him for never calling and looking too skinny. Jonny mumbles something back, and sees Patrick gaping out of the corner of his eye as Jonny subjects himself to maternal treatment. Then comes his dad, looking as thrilled as his mother, hugging him tightly as well and remarking, “Hope the music biz is treating you well, son!” Dave emerges from behind them, giving Jonny an awkwardly affectionate bro hug before the entire Toews family turns its scrutiny to Kaner, who has a deer-in-the-headlights look that he sometimes gets when very small children says he’s their favorite singer.

“You must be Patrick,” his mom says after a long pause, and then she smiles widely and draws him into a quick embrace. Patrick nods, and says, “Thank you for having me,” like he’s rehearsed it. Andree shakes her head, “Ah, no, it is our pleasure to meet such a talented young musician. Jonny here is always talking about you!” Kaner ducks his head, and Jonny watches as a blush forms over the bridge of his nose. Seriously? Jonny had figured Kaner would sweep in, all charm and suave, and maybe take the pressure off him a bit. Family dinners are usually an exercise in asking Jonny why he looks like he hasn’t slept in years, why he isn’t getting paid more, and how can he meet anybody when he’s always on the road? He knows they’re being nosy out of love, but it’s difficult sometimes to explain to his parents why he loves something that also continually frustrates, demoralizes and exhausts him. It’s unexpectedly hard to grasp at the simple answer that he does it for the music. That’s something his well-meaning family has never understood: why quiet, serious Jonathan, who could have been a lawyer or a doctor or even the captain of a hockey team (he grew up in Canada, it was a perfectly viable option) chose instead to follow bands around and manage their lives. All for those moments where he can see the magic happen, to hear and enjoy the products of their labor and his hard work.

Patrick is looking a bit overwhelmed, so Jonny clears his throat and suggests that they move farther into Dave’s apartment, which is not bad for a junior hockey player (“Shut up, Jonny, just wait until I’m making NHL money.” “Yeah, which is still about 100% less than any other professional sport money.”)

His mother’s already got some dishes laid out on the table and Jonny follows her into the kitchen, leaving Patrick at the tender mercies of his dad and brother. Andree hands him more dishes, and remarks casually, “He’s very cute. Much cuter than on TV.” Jonny hears himself choke on air, because, oh boy, this had been a huge mistake. His parent’s had taken his coming-out with general nonchalance, but his mother is determined to get a dozen grandchildren no matter the gender of Jonny’s future spouse.

Jonny’s reminded, yet again, of why this was a terrible plan when his parents and Dave team up to tell Kaner terrible stories about his childhood. “Oh, and do you remember when he used to decorate the Christmas tree?” his mother asks in accented English. “It was the cutest thing. All the ornaments were organized by size and color. He threw a tantrum when we tried to change it!”

Jonny furiously shakes salt onto his potatoes, as Kaner adds, “You know, he insists that the post-its on our tour bus fridge be color-coded, too.”

“Oh really?” Dave asks mildly. “Well, who would have seen that coming, Jonny?”

“Yeah, make fun of me all you want, but you have no idea how bad it can get,” Jonny defends. “Patrick’s the one that organises the food in the fridge, and for some reason he finds it important to keep the apples in the vegetable drawer.”

Patrick elbows him. “It keeps them crispy, and you bi--I mean, you get cranky when they’re too soft.”

“We eat them too quickly for them to go soft, what the hell are you talking about.” Jonny grumbles, and Dave clears his throat with a cough that sounds uncomfortably like ‘codependent.’

Jonny shoots him a glare, and Patrick’s biting his lip in an obvious failure to keep from smiling. “Not really,” he says easily, reaching for his wine, “But a long time on the road will really get you used to your roommate.”

“Oh yes,” Andree nods. “It’s good that you and Jonny are getting along well. Things were very rough with, ah, Sidney.”

Everybody at the table winces. Sid’s great, but his nitpicking is legendary.

“So Patrick,” Jonny’s dad says, “What do you do, for, ah, fun?”

Patrick looks at Jonny and laughs. “I write music. Jonny doesn’t let me have any more fun than that.”

“Not so,” Jonny says defensively. He has very distinct memories of fun that they had in Raleigh to the tune of The Grateful Dead, thank you very much. “We do stuff.”

“Like what?” Dave smirks, and Jonny flips him off behind Patrick’s chair.

Fortunately for Jonny, Patrick comes in to save the day. “Thanks so much for having me for dinner,” he says earnestly.

It’s the third time he’s said this tonight, and Jonny watches as his parents exchange glances.

“It’s nothing, honey,” his mother says with a fond look. “You know, I’m sure your parents are so proud of you. Where do they live?”

Jonny wants to reach over and flip the table or something to distract his family from the look on Patrick’s face, which looks frozen in something approximating deep discomfort bordering on hysteria. His mom must realize that she touched a nerve, because she looks at Patrick for a long moment before reaching down to fuss with her silverware. Dave shifts uncomfortably.

“He’s from Buffalo,” Jonny says loudly. “Anyway, we’re playing in Philadelphia tomorrow night and we’re sold out for the rest of the tour.” Patrick looks up, something unreadable in his face, before he nods imperceptibly in gratitude. He may never tell Jonny everything, but Jonny will protect whatever secrets he has until he’s ready.

His father latches onto the new subject with aplomb, beaming and saying, “That’s great, son. I’ve heard some of your stuff, it’s, uh, it’s very good.”

Patrick smiles, and though it’s a little forced, it’s still real. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

“Dude, we listen to ‘Just Gonna Dance’ in the locker room all the time after a win,” Dave enthuses, and Jonny feels a little smug at the sight of his brother’s fanboy attitude. He had scoffed and made fun of Jonny for ages when he had signed with Sid, calling him the Male Celine Dion until Jonny had punched him in the gut.

“You know, I wanted to be a hockey player when I was younger,” Patrick says, unexpectedly and  Jonny’s surprised--it’s not something Kaner’s ever told him. Jonny had figured he’d always wanted to be a musician, but maybe for a kid growing up in Buffalo, hockey had been a more reasonable aspiration.

“Really?” Dave sounds similarly surprised.  
“Yeah, but I was too short. And, uh, it got too expensive.” Kaner looks down and picks at his food, and Jonny can feel his mother boring holes into his head with her stare so he says, “You may have been small, but you’d probably have the fastest hands out there.”

Patrick lets out a surprised laugh and glances at Jonny, smiling softly and Jonny feels something unfurl in his chest, warmth blooming as he meets his gaze. “You think?”

Jonny replies, deadpan, “As a Canadian, I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing.” He narrowly avoids Dave’s kick and lets his parents chuckle. Patrick just raises his eyebrows and mimics using his knife as a hockey stick, shooting a pea in the air and onto Jonny’s plate. His mother claps, and Patrick looks sheepishly embarrassed, like he’s been caught having too much fun.

Jonny laughs too, and catches Patrick’s pleased smile. He’s happy, Jonny realizes, looking at Kaner. He’s happy and relaxed and Jonny did that for him. It makes him want to do something stupid and crazy, like sweep Patrick into his arms or just reach out and hold his hand across the table. For all that he was nervous, this dinner is turning out to be the best idea he’s had in a while.

A couple of hours later, as Jonny and Patrick depart Dave’s with promises to call more often and, in Patrick’s case, future trips to Winnipeg planned. The latter had been agreed upon with wide eyes and and a hesitant, “Really?” before Jonny’s mom had made a clucking noise and told Jonny, in French, “You take good care of this boy, okay, mon cher?”

So as they get in the car and drive off, Jonny takes a moment to reflect on what was, surprisingly, not an exquisitely awful experience. (And he's had his share of exquisitely awful. The first time Kaner got drunk, for instance, and came on to him, and then threw up all over him was definitely one. As well, perhaps, was when Sharpy thought he could back-up sing.) But this, this was actually good: Patrick, wine-flushed and relaxed, startled into smiles by his mother’s dry humor or Dave’s random observations.

They drive in silence for twenty minutes, Jonny peering at the GPS and cursing his brother for living so far away. All he wants to do is go home and curl up under the covers of his cramped little tour bus bunk. He notices that Patrick’s looking out the winder, his face set in a frown and he wonders if he even wants to disturb the stillness of the evening before manning up and asking, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick replies shortly, not looking away from the blackened landscape rolling by.

Jonny presses his lips together. Maybe he’s exhausted too, maybe he just doesn’t want to talk. Yet suddenly Jonny is anxious to know what Patrick’s thinking, what he thought of their night.

So he asks, and he gets a couple of drawn out moments of silence before Patrick replies, in a strange voice, “It was good. I had a good time, Jonny.”

“It doesn’t sound like it,” Jonny throws back, and why is he pushing it? He doesn’t understand, except that some impulse is nagging at him, telling him that something’s not right.

“No, it was great. I just don’t want to talk right now.” Patrick mumbles and Jonny, stubborn asshole that he is, can’t let it go, “Something’s wrong. Did my parents say something to you? I know that there were some awkward moments, but I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Jonny, of course not. I mean, your family was great. Your mom spoke English for me, and your dad made bad jokes!  David doesn’t even care that I’m a rock star!”

“I think he cares a little...” Jonny trails off.

“Shut up. The point is, they treated me like I’m a normal person. They treat me like you do.” Patrick sounds relieved and guilty, and Jonny isn’t sure why.

“That’s a good thing, Kaner. Your head doesn’t need to get any bigger.” Jonny tries for levity, but if anything, it seems to make Patrick even more upset.

“You don’t understand,  Jonny.” Patrick tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, his stupidly dorky light blue Oxford that Jonny’s never seen him wear before. Jonny feels lightheaded from wine and fatigue.  He forgets sometimes that Kaner doesn’t know how to deal with too much of a good thing. He forgets that he’s supposed to take this thing slow, let Patrick determine the pace.

But, of course, he’s Jonathan Toews.

“Patrick,” Jonny says slowly, and at his name, Kaner snaps his head up. “I brought you here because things have been good lately. You haven’t been partying as much, your music is sounding great, you’re in a good place. I wanted...” Jonny has to pause, because what does he want, really? Does he want to _give this_ to Kaner? His family, a night where nobody cared that they were in the same room as the Patrick Kane? Is he really that selfless? Because, deep in his the back of his mind, Jonny sometimes thinks he’s doing this all for himself. A happy Patrick is a Patrick that wants Jonny, one that gravitates towards him and lets Jonny have bits and pieces of him. He likes that, likes the way Patrick fits in his hands the same way he fits inside his heart.

“Wanted what, Jonny?” Kaner’s voice interrupts, sounding puzzled and wary.

Jonny sighs. “I wanted to say thank you. For being better.”

Kaner makes a face. “What? Like, I’m some kind of trained dog?” He’s beginning to look angry, and this is _so_ the opposite of what Jonny wanted.  “Like I get a reward for behaving myself? Was all this,” Kaner waves at something indistinct, “some sort of treat for me? To see how normal and happy the Toews family is? How much they fucking adore you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the way you’ve been treating me! Like I’m this bomb that’s about to go off. You don’t--” Kaner breaks off, making a frustrated sound. He won’t meet Jonny’s eyes. “You’re nicer. You don’t get angry, you don’t get pissed anymore. You’re just around and you have that stupid look on your face all the time. What the hell is that supposed to mean? We got high together, for fuck’s sake. You never wanted to do that before!”

“I thought that was fun?”

“Jesus, you’re not getting it! What am I supposed to think? You’ve completely changed! And I...have no idea where I stand anymore.”

Jonny wants to shake him. Wants to pull the car over  and wrap his hands around his throat and choke the voice right out of him. Wants to kiss him so badly he’s shaking with it. “Kaner, if I’m being nicer, it’s because the way things were before? It wasn’t good, for either of us. Ignoring what happened between us, it was making things worse.”

“Nothing happened!” Kaner shouts, his entire face red.

“Don’t be a shit,” Jonny snaps, and notes with satisfaction that Kaner rears his head back. “We don’t talk about it, and obviously you weren’t in a good place--out getting wasted every night. Your performance suffered, your critics were having a fucking field day. What was I supposed to do? Let you destroy yourself?”

“So what, huh? I’m suddenly your pet project? Wanted to rehabilitate the fuck-up?”

Jonny can’t fully deny it, because in a way, yeah, Patrick has a point. But it was always more than that--how can he not see it? “I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to reach your potential. I wanted to do that for you.” Jonny reaches out, hoping to connect somehow, with Kaner, but Kaner brushes him off.

“That’s not your job, Jonny! You’re my fucking manager, not my life coach! Why the hell is it your business?” Kaner is close to  his face now, chest heaving, looking so angry, so out-of-his-mind with it, that Jonny doesn’t know what to say and when he opens his mouth, “It’s my business because I fucking love you, you piece of shit!” comes out.

There’s silence, and Jonny thinks that he should probably pull over because these conditions are not conducive for safe driving.

Patrick rears back in his seat,  face suddenly white. “You don’t mean that,” he whispers after a beat too long.

Jonny closes his eyes, resigned to the fact that he just said it out loud, admitted something that they’d never even come close to acknowledging. “You know I do, Patrick,” he says, because, really, how could he not? This thing between them, building and growing for years. It was written on his face every single day--how had Patrick not noticed?

Kaner must be willfully in denial, because he waves his hands in front of his face like Jonny is some sort of mosquito that’s been buzzing around his head. “No, you don’t mean this, because the fucking label put you up to this or some shit. This whole stupid act...you must think I’m such an idiot, right?” He looks hurt, breathtakingly lost, and Jonny doesn’t know how this got away from him. This night--it was exactly what he had wanted, Patrick and his family and _happiness_ , and now there’s a sour taste in his mouth and he has to bite his lip to center himself in the rolling sea of the discomfort inside.

They’re on a stretch of highway and Jonny couldn’t pull over even if he wanted to, but he slows down enough that he can turn to face Patrick and say, “Of course not. Please, just listen to me.”

Patrick ignores him. “I thought I could trust you, Jonny.” His voice sounds wrenched, the ways it does during that one song he sings about growing up in Buffalo, about the pain that grows silently, over years and years. Patrick doesn’t ever talk about his family, except through those songs. “You were the one that wouldn’t lie to me. Everyone else...but you were supposed to be different.” Patrick looks away, but Jonny can see through the reflection in the window, his  eyes glassy and jaw clenched.

“ _Patrick_ ,” is all Jonny can say, because he’s not lying and he knows Kaner knows, and all he can do is try and show him how true it is, even though that’s what he’s been doing for years.

Patrick’s shaking his head, whispering, “No,” softly, yanking his headphones out of his pocket and tuning him out, and now there’s more traffic so Jonny has to pay attention  and they’re in the middle of nowhere , Jonny just stares out the window, driving on autopilot,  and runs over it in his head--how the evening was perfect, and they had _had it_ \--until they get back to the hotel in Philly and Patrick leaps out of the car before Jonny can call his name. Kaner glances over his shoulder at Jonny, one foot already in the doorway, meets his eyes through the dark, and Jonny--

********  
  


The first time Jonny kisses Patrick is after a gig at the label’s party for stockholders. It’s a pretty swanky event, and the president of the label had basically bullied Kaner into getting dressed up and on his best behavior for the evening. It had been five, maybe six months after his album had dropped, and had since soared to number one on iTunes. Jonny had actually been more nervous than Kaner. He had been in this business for about 5 years already, had always been more comfortable at the business end of things. He had enjoyed booking gigs and negotiating sessions and getting meeting with the head honchos, but Kaner had been his first real success. And in the 5 or 6 months since they had partnered up, Jonny had been privy to both Kaner, the rock star and fan-favorite, and Patrick, the goof, bit of an ass, who was perpetually getting himself into stupid situations. At times like these, in particular, Jonny considers whether it would have been better to stay in Winnipeg and coach some Canadian alt-rock star to semi-fame. Instead he has Patrick, who, he admits, cleans up good under the careful guidance of Brandon, the label’s stylist on call. Brandon, or Prusty, as he wanted to be called, had taken one look at Patrick’s duds and had sniffed, projecting disdain throughout his 6 foot, 200 pound frame.

“Uh-huh,” had been his only words before sweeping Patrick away and ensconcing him in his lair of finely pressed suits and expensive cowboy regalia. Thirty minutes later, Patrick had re-emerged, looking awkward and uncomfortable in a pair of tight slacks, blue oxford button-down and a tweedy-looking vest.

“It’s a weskit,” Patrick had snarled, picking at this clothes.

“A what?”

“A fucking weskit, Jonny!” Patrick whipped his head around, face flaming, “Like I’m fucking Mumford and Sons!”

Jonny considered laughing, but decided not to to tempt fate. He was glad, at least, that no one had wanted to tame Kaner’s curls, which were replacing his godawful mullet at Jonny’s explicit demand. (“Your hair’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.” “Your face is stupid, Jonny!”)

Kaner’s mood had only worsened from there, downing flutes of champagne like they were coloured shots and he was on a mission to tye-dye his tongue the colours of the rainbow, flirting with Shania Twain (“Jonny, if she married me, she would be Shania Twain Kane. We’ve gotta make this happen!”), and Jonny had tried his best to reign him in and had watched with concern as Scott Bowman, the president of the label, had started to frown in Kaner’s direction.

Jonny had finally taken him aside and forcibly shoved him into one of Bowman’s fifteen parlors in his huge-ass mansion. Kaner had huffed and puffed, like he always did, but Jonny knew him by now, and knew it was just nerves. They both had known that this was an important concert, that screwing up here could cost them hundreds of opportunities with the label and advertisers down the line, no matter his status on iTunes.

So Jonny had looked him in the eye and said, “Breathe with me, Patrick.”

And it had worked. Kaner looked panicked, then wary, but had eventually matched Jonny’s even breaths. Jonny could see him relaxing, shoulders loosening and eyelids drooping from his usual manic gaze. His face had lost some of its tension too, and suddenly Patrick had looked much younger than 23. He looked fragile, a far cry from his normal cocky demeanor. And Jonny had been fascinated, and couldn’t help himself from reaching out and touching Patrick’s face, tracing his cheek with one hand has he repeated, “Just breathe. It’s gonna be just fine. You’re going to be great.”

Patrick had closed his eyes, leaning into Jonny’s hand and Jonny couldn’t look away from the soft pink of his lips, which parted in an exhale and formed the words, “You think?”

“Yeah, I know.” Jonny had replied, sounding sure and confident, though, really, what did he know? He was only two years older than Pat, had no experience training young rock stars, had no idea how to deal with someone with Patrick’s intensity, his bright flame of life. But in a strange way, he had known. He had known that as long as he was by Patrick’s side, they could do this thing.  
And he hadn’t even thought about it, which was so _unlike_ Jonny, but he leaned in and pressed his lips against Patrick’s and let them linger there, hoping to share some sort of calm in the action.

Patrick had inhaled, sharply, and Jonny had feared the worst, that Patrick would turn him away, would shout and scream, but maybe he had always known that Patrick would kiss back, with a stuttering sigh of relief.

It had been a brief kiss, not lasting longer than a few moments, but it had been enough. Patrick had looked at him afterwards like he was some new person, completely different and  yet the same, and had mumbled out his thanks, gaze dropping and returning to Jonny’s in half-aborted movements.

Jonny had stared back, wondering what kind of door he had opened.

The ding of Jonny’s phone had jolted them out of their gap in time, alerting him that Kaner was needed on stage for his performance. Jonny, ever the dutiful manager, had escorted him out, a hand firmly pressed to the small of Kaner’s back and he had whispered, despite the quiet of their surroundings, “Kick ass out there.”

Patrick had looked back, already in the middle of his transformation into Kaner, happy-go-lucky rock star, and had nodded, gaze dropping to Jonny’s mouth and replying, “Yeah, Jonny. Wait for me.”

And Jonny had--

****

He’s still waiting.

********  
  


On the upside, Jonny thinks to himself in one particularly cynical moment, at least he doesn’t have to wait for Kaner’s worst to come rolling in.

Jonny asks him, every morning, about the night before, and Kaner’s answers get shorter and shorter.

“Stop asking.”

Jonny keeps asking.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Does he think Jonny’s just going to not worry? Nice try.

“Fuck off.”

Not going to happen.

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

It is, but after that, Jonny stops.

They talk as minimally as a manager and his musician can--or at least, Jonny behaves normally and talks all the time, for him, and Kaner doesn’t reply. Jonny’s determined to make it through this, though, because Kaner _knows_ , now, and soon enough, he’ll figure out this thing that he has against being with Jonny and they’ll ride off into the sunset on their shining steed of a tour bus. Okay, maybe not quite like that, but Jonny’s pretty sure Kaner’s going to come around. There’s no way that he can’t.

Jonny figures that it’s kind of like writing a piece of music, or organizing a tour, or really, a lot of things that take planning and then don’t go right, but sort themselves out in the end. There’s always someone in tech who knows how to fix it, and, at least with their tech, Jonny now knows--and shudders to think--fixing it involves sex. Lots of sex.

Jonny’s good with that, and he’s waited a while. He can do some more.

It doesn’t stop him from getting frustrated, though, as the tour goes on and Kaner gets wilder and wilder. He’s singing well, though not as well as he could. Jonny’s pretty sure Kaner’s making up for his singing with sheer energy, though, because he’s lighting it up onstage, and, as his manager, that’s supposed to be the most important thing, right? Jonny’s not supposed to care that much. It’s not in his contract to keep Kaner happy.

It’s also not in his contract to fall for his client, but go figure.

So Jonny watches him sing, and kicks back a little. Kaner will turn around sometime soon, he knows, and Jonny will be there when he does.

****

Jonny didn’t expect ‘turn around’ to mean ‘take a nosedive’ two weeks before the Grammys. They’re in Buffalo, where he and Patrick first met, and he knows it’s going to be a rough stop on the tour, but he hadn’t expected this.

“What the _fuck_?” he fumes, pacing in their bus. “What possibly possessed you to punch a cab driver over twenty fucking cents?”

“I’m fucking sorry, okay, it’s not a big fucking deal,” Kaner says, glaring at the table, where Jonny had sat him down and told him, firmly, to _fucking stay_. “Can we just not?”

“Can we just not _what_?” Jonny asks, slamming his palm against the table. “Kaner, I just fucking bailed you out at five-thirty in the goddamn morning! You’re charged with--” Jonny pauses to breathe and pulls out the record sheet--“second-degree robbery, fourth-degree criminal mischief, and theft of services! What the _fuck_ do you think you’re _doing_?”

Kaner sighs, and not for the first time, Jonny winces at the dark rings under his eyes.

“Fucking think! Just because you’re Patrick fucking Kane doesn’t mean you can get away with shit like this!” Jonny looks away from Patrick, because he can tell how hard Patrick’s trying not to break down, not to fall apart, and he can’t watch that happen. “We’re in your fucking hometown, Patrick,” he says, knowing that this will bite and, for just that moment, hoping that it will. “Nice place to give your family a sign that you’re doing well.” Jonny turns and walks out of the bus, heading out--out somewhere, where he can punch and scream his ears off, because Patrick’s fucking himself over more than Jonny can bear to watch, and he almost wishes he could take out his stress like the Staals.

A voice catches him as he’s halfway out the door. “Don’t you fucking talk about my family.”

Jonny pauses, then calls  over his shoulder, “I offered you mine, you know.”

“Fuck you.”

Jonny leaves.

********  
  


Predictably, a rock star punching a cab driver does not just go away overnight. It’s a media sensation, with every entertainment journalist clawing at each other to get an exclusive and interviewing as many witnesses as they can, from the cab-driver himself to the woman who fed Patrick shot after shot at the bar beforehand. Bowman makes a call, sounding quiet and composed and deadly and Jonny would tell Kaner about it if only he would show his face. He doesn’t come out of his bus unless it’s for rehearsal or a show, and Jonny is torn between banging on his door in anger and leaving Kaner to sulk in isolation. Fielding call after call from Sharpy doesn’t help either.

The worst fallout is from the fans. Nevermind the blog posts and the tumblr vigilante justice once the story and the mugshots had gotten out, but Patrick’s concerts, which had sold out in presales, suddenly begin to issue refunds and Jonny doesn’t want to look at and see chunks of the stands empty, nor does he want to hear Kaner’s lackluster performance.

It’s almost a relief when they take a break for the Grammys, with just two weeks left in the tour.

Jonny never really knows how to feel about these things. Well, he knows how he feels: he fucking hates the suits (he likes seeing the guys in suits, since there’s a lot to appreciate, but he hates wearing one himself), there are cameras everywhere that he just does not know how to smile for, and then he usually has to drag Kaner at his celebratory drunkest--while a little tipsy himself--somewhere that he won’t embarrass himself too much. But he can’t hate them completely, because Kaner usually wins, and his face when he does makes the whole night worth it.

Tonight, though, that might not happen. Kaner had been the front-runner for Album of the Year until what Jonny likes to call the Night of Patrick Kane Pulling Ultimate Bullshit. As expected, many people, probably all voters, had been pretty quick to jump to conclusions.

Not that their conclusions weren’t right.

Kaner has been pretty clean since then, actually sleeping a little, though he and Jonny still aren’t talking, and Jonny’s not sure if he or Kaner is the angry one.  But he puts on his suit and tries to get himself excited for tonight, because even if he’s bummed (though unsurprised) that Kaner probably isn’t going to win Album of the Year, TJ will be there, and so will Sid. Plus, though it’s petty and vindictive to take pleasure in the thought, Jonny knows that Sid and Kaner get along awkwardly at best, and they’ve been seated next to each other. Even better, Jonny’s right behind them, and he’ll be able to hear every bit of the fumbling conversation without actually being obliged to contribute.

He’ll make it through the night, even if he has to down a few dozen shots to pull it off.

When they finally arrive, and Jonny manages to dump Kaner at the cameras and wanders until he sees Sid, and they share a hug of mutual Canadianness, two lost souls born for the icy cold stranded among tan, douchey Los Angeleans who are really not the angels they’re supposedly named after.

Sid chatters in his ear about the new single he put out and how wonderful it is to be out on the road until Jonny gives him a look. Sid’s never been happy to tour--Jonny worked with him when Sid was first starting up, and Sid had nearly passed out when he found out that California didn’t sell the right brand of peanut butter for his preshow sandwich. That had set the tone for the rest of the tour, and Jonny didn’t hesitate afterwards when Sharpy called him with instructions to hop on a plane to Buffalo. He and Sid get along well, these days, but Sid needs someone a little more laid back to work with. And as much as Jonny, apparently, is a person who smokes weed with his artists on tour, he is not exactly ‘laid back.’

But if Sid’s enjoying the tour, it means Jonny’s replacement, Geno, is working out well--and when Jonny sees the way Geno smiles at Sid, he’s pretty sure he understands why.

Geno smiles at Jonny and ignores the hand Jonny offers him in favour of hugging him, and for once, Jonny doesn’t mind. “You Sid’s first manager, yes?” Geno asks, and Jonny nods with a wry grin.

“Well, I find him best peanut butter,” Geno says, startling all three of them into laughter.

Jonny manages to deflect most of their questions about how things are with Kaner, and enjoys the chance to chat with them until TJ shows up--TJ’s up for his first Album of the Year tonight, and Jonny’s, well, Jonny’s almost more proud of him than he is of Kaner.

Speaking of, he looks around cursorily on his way over to TJ to see where Kaner’s wandered off to, knowing that despite the shitstorm of the last couple of weeks, or even because of it, there will be tons of attention on Patrick. And Kaner likes the attention; he thrives on the screams of the crowds while he does his thing on stage, amping his act up a little like a peacock flaunts his feathers. Fortunately, he’s refrained from anything too horrifying tonight, chatting sedately yet uncomfortably with some of the pre-approved press who will lobs softies at him just to get the camera time. It’s a good deal, and Jonny knows Kaner needs all the positive press he can get.

TJ’s got his best excited-and-nervous face on as a few of them ask him bland questions that Jonny finds generally stupid, asking TJ what the story is behind the name ‘Broshie’ like he hasn’t told it a few hundred times before, and Jonny claps a hand on his shoulder in greeting. “Hey,” he adds, and TJ shoots him a grateful look before waving off the press and giving him a real grin.

“So Mister Oshie,” Jonny asks seriously, “What made you choose the name Broshie, again? I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten.”

TJ snorts. “Fuck, man, I can’t remember, I think my bro back in college might have named me. Let me call my Jonny boy up and I’ll let you know.”

“How’re you holding up, man?” Jonny asks, because it’s a pretty big night for TJ, and, man, he couldn’t have imagined this when he forced his way into editing TJ’s mixtapes at UND. TJ’s eyes are bright, though, like he can’t imagine it either, and he pulls Jonny into a hug that lasts a good minute and a half.

All too soon, though, he’s got to shoo TJ off to his own seat and plant himself immediately behind Sid and Kaner, where the fun has already begun.

Kaner’s smiling awkwardly, hands dancing on his knees, and he tosses glances at the cameras still on them until they finally turn away and he can drop the fake face. Jonny winces in sympathy when Kaner rolls his shoulders around and cracks his neck, though he can’t help but smirk when Kaner elbows Sid and whispers, “Lighten the fuck up, bro.”

Sid shoots him a look. “I know how to lighten up,” he says, sniffing, and Patrick claps him on the back.

“Sure you do, buddy.”

Jonny snorts.

He spaces out a little throughout the ceremonies. It’s not that he’s not happy for Sid, because Song of the Year is spectacular, and Matty Duchene is an incredible breakout artist, really, but he’s waiting for Album of the Year like his life depends on it, and all too soon, it’s time. He can see Kaner biting at his lips and it just tenses him up more, because knows that if things were normal, if they were talking like they should be, he would have sneaked Kaner gum to chew on before they walked in. Kaner takes out his nerves with his mouth, and when he can’t talk, he bites. (It gets his lips red and puffy in ways that Jonny really is not equipped to deal with in public.)

And then he’s shaken out of his thoughts of Kaner’s lips and mouth by “For Album of the Year, we are pleased to select ‘Docta Bro.’”

“You tween little shit,” Jonny hears Patrick snarl as TJ saunters up, but pastes on a pleased smile and claps along with Sid. Despite the twinge of disappointment for Kaner, Jonny can’t  help the grin that lights up his face. In this moment, TJ’s won and his life will never be the same, and Jonny knows that it’s okay to clap for him because Kaner will have his chance again.  And who would have known that TJ Oshie, baseball cap wearing resident of Apartment 4K, whose lap Jonny had sat drunkenly upon once and whose music Jonny had cultivated; who would have thought that he’d get here? Jonny reflects that, without TJ, he  never would have gotten into the music business, and never would have met Patrick. The thought that, not matter how things turn out, he was there at the beginning for Patrick makes him glad.

“Yo there, bros there,” Broshie begins, and Jonny watches Patrick twitch. This is off to an _excellent_ start. “I just wanna thank all the bros and babes out there who voted for me!” The audience cheers.

“It’s been an honour, yo, makin’ music for you all,” Broshie says, and then he looks down at the podium for a moment, pausing before looking up with a [grin that stretches from ear to ear](http://hothockeyplayeroftheday.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/tumblr_lqk22gnxt61qiwodc.gif?w=604), shaking his hair as it flips and licking his bottom lip. “Before I thank everyone, I gotta give a shout out to my fave bro, Jonny T! Been with me since the start, man, and every time I thought I couldn’t do it, Jonny was there, like, ‘I gotchu, dude.’” Jonny nods, although part of their motivating process involved lots of cheesy ‘90s rom-coms and pumpkin spice lattes (mixed with Rock Star, for luck) that they don’t admit to. TJ finishes his speech with, “The fans make my heart go ‘round, yo, couldn’t do it without ya bros! I’m so glad you all liked ‘Docta Bro’!” and Jonny’s never seen him happier.

********  
  


The producer Jeff Carter and his partner, Mike Richards, invite everyone and their manager over to their massive mansion in the Beverly Hills, and soon enough, Jonny’s kicking back with his arm around TJ, who’s being regaled with stories of when Mario Lemieux won Best Album that have Sid laughing vodka out of his nose. Geno frowns at him, grumbling about a waste of good vodka, and wanders off to find more Russians to drink with. Jonny keeps an eye out, because if Kaner decides to try to outdrink the Russian Five like last year, when they’d just won Best Foreign Song, this evening will end well for very few people, and Jonny will not be one of them.

TJ bumps into his shoulder to get his attention, and he turns to find TJ’s very big, very green eyes staring into his. “Uh?” Jonny says, because he’s a few beers in, okay.

“You know,” TJ licks his lips, and Jonny feels his eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch, because they haven’t done this since college and this party would not be the place to give anything a second chance. But TJ opens his mouth instead of closing into Jonny’s and he says, carefully, “You know why I won, right?”

“‘Cause you’re good?” Jonny tries, and has some beer to compensate for his confusion.

TJ smiles. “Thanks, man. But nah, bro, it’s because Kaner fucked up with the fuckin’ cabbie.”

Jonny has some more beer, this time because this conversation has taken a turn for the not-confusing and very hard.

“All I’m saying, is, yo, he should not pout like we all know he’s gonna. You gonna, you know, help the cause on that one?”

Jonny clears his throat and stares into his rapidly emptying bottle.

“Huh,” TJ says, then throws an arm around Jonny and pulls him into his side. “I was wondering. Sorry about that, shit sucks, yo.”

Jonny swallows and acquaints himself with a new drink.

“Anyway, bro, let me tell you about this babe I met the other day. Yo, the rack she had, man, I didn’t even fuckin’ know what to do.” Broshie starts off on familiar territory and Jonny relaxes into it, letting the haze of TJ’s win wash over him and ignoring, for the first time in weeks, the knot in his gut about Patrick.

********  
  


Despite Jonny swearing to keep an eye on Kaner, he gets distracted by Oshie and catching up with Sid and before he knows it, Patrick is making a fool of himself in front of Carts and Richie, who look less than impressed that Patrick can do the moonwalk on their expensive marble table.

Jonny sighs, because will this be his life? Picking up after Patrick Kane, when he knows very well that he could never make himself leave?

He nods goodbye to the group, who give him varying looks of sympathy, before heading over to corral Kaner and apologizing to said marble table’s owners.

“Jonnyyyy,” Kaner whines, as Jonny forcibly escorts him outside and down the walk to where he knows a line of cabs will be waiting.

“Shut up, Patrick. Just, shut up.” Jonny’s furious and tired, because he thought that Patrick had learned his lesson.

“You’re not being fair, and I am not going to go with you just ‘cause you say.” Patrick retorts, slurring his words.

“You don’t even think, is that it? You just play your music and smile like it’s nothing and you just don’t fucking care otherwise, don’t you.” It’s not a question, but Patrick replies like it is, “Stop, Jonny, please.”

But Jonny doesn’t want to stop, furious as he lets go of Patrick and watches him stumble and then catch himself. He says, “It doesn’t even matter to you that I said I loved you. That I do, because you are so fucking fixated on the past that you’d rather fuck up any chance you have rather than be happy.”

“Shut up!” Patrick screams, suddenly sounding far more sober than he ought to.

Jonny just stares as Patrick, shocked.

“You don’t understand at all, Jonny.” Patrick’s voice breaks, “This doesn’t happen to stupid kids like me.”

Jonny finds his voice, “Pat, you aren’t stupid--”

“You’re not listening! I know the odds. I should have burnt out years ago. This was never supposed to go farther than my garage. I wake up every morning and I wonder, is today the day? That everyone realizes what a phony I am? Jonny, do you know what it’s like to live with this fear that you’re getting away with something? That you’re deceiving everyone that you care about?” Patrick’s chest heaves, the words a knife between them, cutting through the years of built up doubt and anxiety and insecurity.

Jonny feels so much anger: anger at Patrick for getting so caught up in all of that, and worse, anger at himself for waiting this long, for pretending not to see it. For letting the artifice, all that bluster and cocksure attitude, hide what was really underneath. “Why don’t you just say it. You think you don’t deserve this.” His voice is flat, and he knows it’s not helping any, but it feels satisfying to finally let it out in the open.

And Patrick looks at Jonny like he’s crazy. It’s the first time he’s ever looked at Jonny like he didn’t know something, didn’t have the solution to any problem. “I know I don’t deserve this, Jonny. And I know you don’t deserve someone like me.”

Before Jonny can say anything to the contrary, Patrick hurls himself towards the nearest cab, getting inside and shouting something. Jonny can only watch in dismay as the car peels away from the curb and rushes into the night.

********  
  


Jonny’s expecting it, really. Two weeks after the Grammys, and the gossip still hasn’t died down. Kaner can’t leave the tour bus without glasses and a baseball cap, and that’s even when he does want to leave. They have one final show, one last shot to appease the fans before Kaner goes into hiatus and hopefully lets things settle. And, despite the conversation they had after the award show, they’re still not talking. The silence is deafening.

So when Bowman calls again, on the eve of their final night, Jonny takes the news with all somber accordance. He hears about the PR nightmare this as all been, how Patrick’s fallen from from his peak on the Billboard chart, the angry letters written by betrayed fans. He doesn’t offer excuses, don’t offer platitudes. However, Jonny is surprised when they offer him an out.

“You’re a talented manager, Jonathan,” Bowman tells him, “Kane is unsustainable. At the rate he’s going, he will do himself in if the fans don’t do it for him.”

Before Jonny can protest, Bowman tacks on, “and that’s why I think we should try a new strategy. Patrick Kane’s a sinking ship. But you’re an asset, Jonny. We want to sign you to a new artist after this tour. Someone whose image we can manage a bit more, so you can do what you do best.”

Jonny doesn’t know what to say. The idea of moving on, of not being Patrick’s manager, has never occurred to him. He had always assumed that from the first time he had watched him play, they’d be together for both their careers. He would rise and fall with Kaner, and any success he found would be theirs to share. Just like any failure would be theirs to carry.

But he had never anticipated this. Feeling something for Kaner that went beyond their friendship, their professional roles. Watching him spiral further and further without reaching out to Jonny the way he used to makes him feel powerless. Back when this thing between them was about comfort and filling a role they both needed, it had been easy to disconnect, to remove himself afterwards and let himself be Patrick’s manager, getting him through shows, making sure he hit his deadlines, and dealing with press. But maybe he had been lying to himself.  Maybe taking care of Patrick had been the way he had loved him, and letting Patrick in, where no one else had been before, had been about letting himself be loved. Maybe if they had talked about it, for once in their lives, actually sat down and talked about it, it wouldn’t have come to this. Patrick’s been running a long time, running ever since he strapped a guitar to his back and headed down this road with him and Sharpy, and Jonny had planned to run alongside him, to whatever end awaited them. But now Kaner’s too far gone, almost beyond Jonny’s reach, and Jonny’s not sure if it’s because Kaner knows he loves him, or because Jonny actually said it.

So in the end, he tells Bowman, “I’ll think about it.”

********  
  


The next morning shines bright and warm in Chicago and Jonny takes a rare moment for himself to wander outside the United Center, past the stalls selling knock-off Blackhawks gear and out towards the edge of the parking lot, where he can spy some green. It’s a tiny little park, barely more than a spot where tailgaters can picnic, but it suits Jonny fine to sit down on the grass and feel the breeze on his face and forget, just for a moment, the total shitstorm his life has been these last couple of months. He looks back at the UC and grins to himself. Growing up, he had fallen in love with music the same time he had started playing hockey, and while everyone had such hopes for him to keep playing, it had been music that had claimed his heart. It’s not like he has second thoughts or anything, but sometimes, he wonders how his life would have turned out if he had stuck with the game.

“Thinking deep thoughts there, bud?”

Jonny turns around. Standing backlit by the sun is Sharpy, looking far too dapper and out of place in a suit and tie. Jonny sighs, because of course he would be here, probably trying to protect his asset from any more screw-ups. He had been strangely radio-silent the last couple of weeks, although Jonny suspects Sharpy has been doing a lot of negotiating to keep Kaner on track with sponsors and the label. Jonny wonders if he’ll even be around to see how it all pans out.

Jonny stands up and turns towards sharpy, feeling underdressed in his jeans and T-shirt. He manages to summon a half-decent glare and says, “What do you want, Sharpy?”

Undeterred by his attitude, Sharpy beams, seemingly nonchalant despite the clusterfuck of a situation his client’s gotten into. “Just wanted to check in. You know I get free tickets to all the shows, right? Pretty sweet deal. I took the wife and the kids with me. Maddy always loves seeing her favorite player.”

Madelyn Sharp will probably sleep through the concert, Jonny thinks, and asks, “Shouldn’t you be with them now?”

“Oh no, Abby’s taking them to see the Bean. That’ll enthrall them for a while. I actually came here to talk to you.”

Sharpy wraps an arm around Jonny’s shoulders and navigates him back towards the UC. Reluctantly, Jonny lets himself be escorted. “I don’t know what we have to talk about. This should really be between you and Patrick.”

“Well, you’re right that this is about Patrick. But it’s also about you, Toews.” Sharpy’s silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts before he continues, “You know, when I first heard him play, I thought, _this is a guy who will never see himself the way others will_. This was, in part, because he’s breathtakingly insecure, but also because he will never let himself fit into the labels people give him. Idol, maverick, washout, one-hit-wonder...at his very core, our Kaner just sees himself as a guy with a guitar. All he wants to do is play, and play his own way. And that’s why I knew you’d be perfect for him.”

Jonny closes his eyes and counts to ten before he speaks. “Didn’t end up so perfect, did it? I fucked up.”

“It takes two to fuck something like this up.” Sharpy’s hand tightens around Jonny’s shoulder. “I knew you would be perfect for him because you wouldn't accept anything less than the best he could be. You would fight for him. And I thought he would be perfect for you. As a client, and as a friend.”

“How?”  Jonny wonders how could Sharpy could’ve known, from the beginning.  Patrick, who had been moody and determined, never taking his eyes off the goal once it had been placed in front of him and...oh. Wait.  Jonny suddenly feels like an idiot, and from the look Sharpy levels at him, he’s sure the feeling is mutual.

“Look, did I think it would go this far between you two? I’m not sure. I knew there was the potential for something. But obviously you two boneheads don’t know how to communicate, and it’s made my job way too difficult.”

Jonny scowls, pushing away from Sharpy and stalking ahead of him, turning to push a finger into the older man’s chest. “You think your job is difficult? How about you watch him destroy himself piece by piece, every single day, and not let anyone help him! I did everything I could think of! I was his friend, I protected him, I took care of him, I fucking-” Jonny feels himself choke, the words getting caught in his throat, but he pushes them out, “I fucking love him, and he threw it back in my face. I don’t know what you want me to do--because I think I’m doing more harm than good with him.”

“So you’re going to quit? Switch to a new client?” Sharpy’s voice doesn’t sound accusing, but honestly curious, and it makes Jonny furious. “I’m not fucking quitting, but what choice do I have? I think the longer I stay with him, the worse he’s going to get. And I can’t watch that. I won’t.”

There’s a pause, just the two of them standing face to face in an empty parking lot in Chicago and, seriously, what even is his life. Jonny rubs at his face, shaking and exhausted. It’s been a long fucking trip.

“Who do think Patrick sings for, Jonny?” Sharpy asks, and it’s sudden, a quick change of pace that has Jonny looking up in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” and Sharpy doesn’t do him the favor of looking away, instead drills his disgustingly beautiful blue eyes into Jonny’s, “When he’s  out there, and he’s playing the crowd and pouring his heart out, who do you think he’s really singing to?”

“I don’t know. His family?” Because Patrick’s never told him what happened, and why he was living in some run-down part of Buffalo with two jobs and stealing moments to play in crappy bars instead of going to college and getting a proper start on life. But Jonny suspects some things, and always figured that Patrick was so eager to be in the spotlight so he could show them, somehow, that he had made it. That he was something special. Jonny had wanted to make that happen.

But Sharpy shakes his head, “Son, I’m not going to lie and pretend it’s not partly about that. But Kaner sings what he knows, and all he’s known for years was pain and sadness and neglect. It gave his music something visceral, something real that people related to. But when he met you, that changed. You saw the way his music evolved: fuller, more confident. You think that was Patrick’s doing alone?”

Jonny looks away, wants to say he doesn’t understand. But he does. He was there at those long, all-nighter sessions where Patrick would fool around on the guitar and write down lyrics and would smile and laugh with Jonny over some stupid thing. Jonny had felt a little guilty most of the time, like he was distracting Patrick from his music, but those had also been some of the happiest moments he can remember in their friendship. The songs Patrick had ended up with had a speedier tempo, a heartier rhythm and the lyrics had been catchier. Some of the fans had complained that his music was sounding more commercial, but the majority had embraced it, launching Patrick to new levels of success. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” Patrick had told Jonny the night before the record had come out, neither of them knowing that it would sail to No. 1 just a day later.

And when he performed, the audience screaming and eating it up, Patrick’s eyes had always moved away from the crowd and to the wings, where Jonny would stand, proud and critical. Jonny often wondered what Kaner had been seeing when he looked at Jonny, whether it was the man Patrick had grown to know, or the Jonny who had been there at the beginning, who had looked disdainfully at Patrick, with his ripped jeans and hoodie, and had told Sharpy, “I guess he’ll do.”

He wants Patrick to look at him. He has worked tirelessly, every single day, to get Patrick to the top. Jonny has seen every show, every triumph, and also every screw up. So he knows, when Sharpy asks, who Patrick sings to. It’s always been him. It’s always been Patrick singing, proving to Jonny that he’s worth it, singing so that Jonny knows he’s there. Like he could forget.

Jonny gives Sharpy a look, and Sharpy must read it right because he chuckles smugly, that ass, and says, “Don’t let him forget it either.”

********  
  


Jonny finds Patrick on stage, preparing for a short rehearsal. The band’s setting up behind him and Kaner’s just sitting at the edge, baseball cap on backwards and tuning his trusty Gibson, the one that’s been with him for years. Although he’ll never say no to a beautiful instrument, Kaner’s always opted to perform with the one’s he’s had the longest. He claims a guitar sounds best when it’s been well-loved, and Jonny doesn’t doubt it. He pauses, listening to Patrick strum a tune, the opening melody to a Blind Faith song that he’s always liked, half mumbling and half singing the lyrics. Jonny finds himself mouthing along with the song, and feels something clench in his chest when Patrick lets his voice ring out, _But I'm near the end and I just ain't got the time, oh no..._

_And I'm wasted and I can't find my way home..._

Jonny hears himself say, “I love that song.”

Patrick turns, looking small and alone despite the throng of people who have gathered and are gathering here for the sole purpose of being in his presence.

“I remember when I covered this song back in Buffalo, when I was just starting out looking for gigs. It’s a crowd-pleaser, you know?” Patrick’s voice sounds nothing like Steve Winwood’s, doesn’t have the range, but it’s just scratchy enough that the song takes on new life when he sings it. It sounds more worn and weary. Jonny wants to reach down and touch his shoulder, let the warmth of his hand sink into Patrick’s skin. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “We need to talk.”

Patrick tenses, and shakes his head, “I don’t think we have to talk about anything.”

Jonny groans, a loud, frustrated noise that has Patrick turning to look incredulously at him, and Jonny’s surprised himself at the sound. He’s usually much more controlled, but time is running out, and he can’t deal with Kaner’s avoidance shit any longer.

“If you don’t want to talk, then that’s fucking  fine. But you need to listen.” Jonny puts all the command he can into the words, and watches as Kaner guardedly crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

“This is your last concert on this tour. Your last chance to say something to these people, your fans, before you go into hiding again. And I know that mistake, what you did, it’s something you’re ashamed of and trying to make it better. But you can’t do it alone. You need me.” Jonny doesn’t say, _I need you_ , _I want you_ , _please don’t go any further_ \--those get him nowhere. What he needs is for Patrick to remember who Jonny is, that he can be something good, something safe and unyielding. “You need to remember that we’re in this together. That I won’t give up on you--I can’t give up on you.”

Patrick looks pained and weary and Jonny knows what he thinks, and so heads him off, “You deserve it, Patrick. You fucking deserve it. And you can have it.” He means, you can have _everything_ ; hopes Kaner understands that.

Patrick’s still not saying anything, looking at Jonny like he’s working something out inside his head. And Jonny can see the walls trying to form, separating them further so Jonny tells him about the call. About Bowman’s offer. He doesn’t say it like it’s an ultimatum, but as a fact. He has options, but if he’s to stay it’s Patrick’s call.

“I want to see this thing through with you, but we can’t go on like we have been. This thing, we need to sort it out.”

“What thing?” Patrick asks shakily. “There’s no fucking thing, Jonny.”

“Jesus, Patrick, it’s like we’re always going around in circles.” Jonny looks at Patrick, his face illuminated by the glare of the sun. Kaner’s always been a creature of the night. It’s where he thrives, under the lights of the stadium and with the roar of the crowd. Sometimes Jonny forgets that Patrick exists here, as well, the unforgiving morning light casting dark shadows under his eyes. Jonny remembers watching Patrick play in the morning, the excruciatingly early hours of four or five am when he was too wired to sleep, and needed company, and Jonny always came when he called. Patrick’s voice, made huskier from exhaustion, sounded incredible, and Jonny used to think that he would give anything to stop time, to let those moments last forever; the two of them and Patrick’s music.

It’s been months since Patrick has let him in, and Jonny wonders if he still gets up that early to sing or if, at some distant point in the future, he’ll have someone new to sing to in those pre-dawn hours.

It’s not something Jonny wants to contemplate. So he just says, “You know what I want. And I think I know what you want, but you have to stop being afraid of yourself. Please.” He turns to leave, but not before closing his eyes and twisting around to say, “Break a leg out there, tonight.”

********  
  


The concert starts with a bang. The crowd isn’t deterred by Kaner’s recent antics; instead, they’re thrilled and alive and screaming as Patrick takes his place on stage, smiling in that stupidly endearing half-surprised way, like he still can’t believe all these people are here for him. But he gets down to business, flicking his wrists and letting rip a power chord that gets everyone in the UC pumped. He launches into his last single, a catchy, rockabilly-type tune that gets people jumping. That song had been the result of way too many YouTubed Elvis concerts (Jonny was there for _all of them_ and ‘way too many’ is an understatement), but from Kaner it sounds fresh and modern.

Jonny’s been watching the show in a daze, half-fueled by anger and half by hurt, wondering if this will be his last chance to watch Kaner from backstage. The label had been clear: make your decision by the end of this week. Jonny knows they would give him options:  young, up-and-coming musicians who had needed some refinement; whose rough touch would maybe be too much for equally young audiences who wanted pop-friendly clean songs. Nothing like what Patrick does. Nothing like what he creates in his darker moods.

He watches Kaner play the crowd as skillfully as he plays guitar, leaving his bandmates in the dust as he gets closer to the edge of the stage. Sometimes, Jonny thinks that Kaner would like nothing better than to leap off into the crowd, and join them in their incandescent revelry. But he always holds back, remembering himself, and eases on the lyrics, letting his guitar speak for itself.

When had Jonny fallen in love? Really, when? He doesn’t know if it was the first time he had heard Patrick play, in Sharpy’s living room, looking back at Jonny with a mix of  fierce determination and forced nonchalance as he had poured his heart and soul into his music. Or maybe it had been more gradual: weeks on the road, nights spent on their coach bus fine-tuning melodies, and Patrick needing Jonny’s input, trusting him after months of hesitance? They had argued, sure. They still argue. Patrick’s music is sacred to him, and Jonny’s role has always been to translate that to a larger audience; to sell records. Of course they fight. But Jonny had known, even at that first shouting match, that it would be worth it.

And as he watches Patrick play, Kaner letting loose for the crowd, he wonders if anything else could ever come close to moving him as much as Patrick’s music does. The songs are as familiar as an old friend. Jonny finds himself singing along, softly, his voice too deep and too monotone to ever do those melodies justice.

Patrick lets the last song go, and beams as the audience goes wild. Jonny nods: it had been a good choice to end with the rock-ballad, a song about young love burning out in a factory town that always killed it. With a heavy feeling in his chest,  Jonny turns to instruct the crew to put this thing to bed when he heard Patrick’s voice, loud and clear over the mic.

“I know that that was supposed to be my last song and all...”

The crowd cheers, awaiting an encore. Will it be an old favorite? Maybe something from his early albums? Jonny turns back, interested.

“But I thought I would give you guys something new. Something I’ve been working on for a while. Two and a half years, actually.”

Jonny frowns. This is news to him. A song he hasn’t heard before? For two years?

Patrick’s voice, normally so calm and assured in front of a crowd, actually sounds shy as he continues, “I’ve never sung this song before, cause it never seemed the right time. But I’ve learned something, these past few months. You gotta take a chance.” His voice gets louder, more confident, “You have to put yourself out there. Every bit of you, heart and soul.”

Jonny inhales.

“And this why I am dedicating this song to someone...who has been there with me every step of the way. This is a song to say that, that...I’m sorry. I couldn’t be what you needed me to be, because I was afraid. Afraid of how much I felt, and afraid of being hurt by it. But I’m not afraid now, and I need you to know it. So this song is for you.” Kaner clears his throat and says, nearly a whisper, “Jonny’s Song.”

And he plays. The melody is simple, a repetition of chords that sound soothing and rich, like a half-remembered tune from Jonny’s childhood.

****

_I knew we were linked. You said_

_don’t close your eyes on the truth._

_You came along at the right time_

_And now I sing for you._

_**** _

_Don’t lose faith in me, when_

_we are faced with cruel regret_

_You came along at the right time_

_And now I sing for you._

****

The crowd is out of their minds, screaming and cheering as Patrick lets that last chord fade into the night and as he turns, Jonny couldn’t look away from him even if he wanted to. Patrick looks strong, and fierce and proud, chest heaving and clutching his guitar in one hand and looks Jonny in the eye, the way he hasn’t in weeks. And Jonny--

Jonny doesn’t know what to feel, what to say, what to think.

Patrick does all that for him, handing his instrument to a shell-shocked band member and walking determinedly off the stage towards Jonny, who stands frozen like a fucking statue.

Patrick arrives in front of him, face flushed and beaming, looking expectantly at Jonny for a long moment, before his smile fades into something less certain, and he whispers, “Jonny..?”

Jonny blinks and inhales shakily, reaching out with one hand to cup the back of Patrick’s neck and draw him in before saying, “So I guess this means I’m staying?”

Patrick laughs shakily, wrapping his arms around Jonny’s waist and replying, “Yeah, I’m thinking forever, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude, you loser.” Jonny replies and then kisses him. He can’t hear the crew clapping and whistling, he can’t hear the roar of the fans beyond the stage, waiting for Kaner to make one last appearance, he can’t even hear the pounding of his own heart. He hears music, soft and right, like a song you've known forever, and then you get to the chorus and it's like every part of you wants to sing it. That's how Jonny feels, kissing Patrick, like he’s just gotten to the chorus.

********  
  


It’s back at the beginning, and Jonny is tired and jetlagged and giving Sharpy the stink-eye as the guy goes on and on about this kid he found at a bar, who plays like nothing else, and Jonny just has to hear him go at it. Jonny thinks he’d rather go home and crawl under his covers and sleep off the nightmare that was the last six months with Canadian pop-dreamboat Sidney Freaking Crosby.

Sharpy leads him back to his hotel room, and knocks on his door before entering. Sitting on the bed is a young guy, blonde and wearing a shy smile. He holds a guitar with one hand and the other gives a small wave. “Hey man, I’m Patrick. You can call me Kaner.” Jonny nods, wondering where the hell Sharpy found this guy. He looks like a garage-band reject, wearing plaid flannel and the beginnings of a truly bad mullet, and are those racing stripes? Jonny puts on his deadliest unimpressed-face and replies, “Jonathan Toews. You going to play something for us?” Patrick, Kaner, looks taken aback at his brusqueness, but recovers quickly, with a determined set to his jaw. He sits down, and adjusts his guitar, tuning the strings and running through some chords to get the right sound. Jonny watches his hands. They look strangely older than his face, which shifts to something determined and fierce as he concentrates on the instrument, and Jonny finds he can’t look away. Sharpy leans over to whisper, ‘Just wait,” and Jonny does, patiently, until Kaner gets himself situated and looks up, blue eyes meeting Jonny’s directly with a challenge as he begins to strum. He opens his mouth to sing, and Jonny never looks back.

****

THE END

********  
  


Patrick groans when he hears TJ Oshie’s new single in the car.

_Helpin’ out my homie, like erryday,_

_Bro still needs a hand, even though he gay._

_Imma be his yoda, Imma be his bro,_

_Imma be his Broda, ’cause that’s how I roll._

Jonny raises his eyebrows at Patrick. “Shut up,” Patrick replies, and reaches in for a kiss.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tunes!](http://8tracks.com/yukonecho/about-today)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This was originally with each author doing Kane and Toews' perspectives separately. We realised that it was more compelling with just Jonny's, and worked in most of Patrick's thoughts anyway, but these are a few bits that we kept separate.
> 
> →Kaner drowns Patrick in alcohol. The voice in the back of his head that reminds him that he’s a nobody: lucky to make it to Sharpy’s living room, much less the big stage. The voice that reminds him that with every girl he takes home, or to the alley way, or to the bathroom of the bar, he’s forgetting something-- _someone_. Himself? Where he’s from? It doesn’t matter. Kaner lets the waves of tequila wash over him and rides the tide high. He’s a rock star and he parties like one, and that’s what’s important. Shit, parties like this are fucking fan outreach project. He’s participating in better marketing. People buy what they like and they like Kaner, drunk and laughing or sober and strumming on his guitar. Damn straight they like him, because he’s the fucking best and there ain’t nobody who parties like Kaner parties.  
>  They’re in another city, he forgets which one, but it obviously knows how to throw a good night. Kaner’s pretty sure that the high-quality sound crew he employs contributes to that effort, too. He’s glad they schedule him with time in between shows, because he’ll be hoarse as fuck tomorrow morning and it sure as hell isn’t going to be pretty. Speaking of pretty, though, there’s someone bobbing up and down next to him and he smiles down at her, and then looks up, because there’s a shot coming his way.  
> Vodka, tequila, was that Everclear? Fuck, Kaner doesn’t know, but it burns down his throat and he laughs, free and easy. It’s good, he’s good, the people are good.  
> Yeah.  
> The only times he feels like this are when he’s drunk, onstage, or in Jonny’s arms.  
> No.  
> Patrick shakes his head and opens his mouth, hoping someone will pour something into it to help him forget.  
> He’s Patrick Kane, and they do, and he’s good for another night.
> 
> → after the Grammys: Lame-ass Canadians and their stupid _winning_ , Patrick thinks. Ugh.
> 
> →“Bro, bro, bro--” TJ begins, but Kaner cuts him off.  
> “You don’t get to bro me, you fratty douche!”  
> “Not a fratboy,” says TJ petulantly.
> 
> →"Shitters legitters." -Patrick Kane (obligatory)


End file.
